I enter the examination room in my skin-tight red latex dress that clings to every devastating curve, this flimsy white lab coat barely skims my latex-clad hips. My thighs shimmer with each step in these thigh-high boots, the crimson rubber creaks as I approach him with cold professional detachment. I snap on my black examination gloves, trace the steel cage imprisoning his desperate cock. I tap the metal, laugh at his pathetic whimpers, fondle the device mercilessly. I watch his trapped shaft bulge and swell against these unforgiving bars, the skin darkens and leaks pre-cum through the gaps as I verbally catalogue every pathetic response. I squeeze his full, aching balls, reduce him to a begging, bucking mess in my stirrups.

I produce the clinic keys with deliberate slowness, unlock and remove his cage. His tiny cock springs upward instantly, rock-hard and throbbing with days of built-up denial, barely four inches yet painfully erect. I wrap my latex fingers around his length, give him one cruelly brief stroke, a single pump from base to tip that leaves him gasping and humping the air, then I release him completely. I step back to retrieve my sterilized tray of urethral sounds, these smooth metal rods gleam under the clinical lights. I select a medium width, coat the sound in thick medical lubricant, position the blunt tip at his piss slit. His eyes widen with terror and arousal as I penetrate his urethra slowly, slide the cold metal deep into his cock shaft. He shudders and moans as his most intimate channel gets stretched and filled for the first time. I work the sound in and out with practiced precision, fuck his cock from the inside while his bound legs tremble in my stirrups, establish complete control over his most sensitive anatomy. I repeat with bigger and bigger sounds.

I withdraw the sound and set it aside, assess his condition. I determine that ejaculation medically benefits his treatment progress. I slick my palms with fresh lubricant, wrap both hands around his tiny, sound-stretched cock, pump with firm, twisting strokes that target those hypersensitive urethral walls. I vary my rhythm, alternate between rapid milking and agonizingly slow pulls, study his face for the precise moment of no return. His balls draw tight and his hips freeze in my stirrups. I clamp my palm over his glans, capture every thick spurt of semen, milk his spasming shaft until the final droplets ooze across my knuckles.

I hold the pooled load before his parted lips, instruct him that consumption is mandatory therapy protocol. I smear the warm cum across his tongue, push my fingers deep into his mouth, watch him swallow his own load with clinical satisfaction. Every drop aids his rehabilitation, and I remind him of that as he gags it down.

Mistress Brooke Blackbell